This blog is not fitting for children, the super religious, people that do not curse, and those that object to partial nudity, primal urges, fornication, bodily functions, and selective morality.
I'm just a single gal and a rowdy individual that loves to laugh. I'm accidentally sexy and Confidently Awesome. I kiss and tell! This is my life according to me.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Second Opinion

This morning as I sit in the car and mentally prepare myself for a battery of tests at this second opinion appointment I can't help but to hope for the best. I've already heard the hard part.

As I walk in the building an old lady with a cane flags me down to walk with her. Immediately she starts 'Lord talking.' From prior experience in Doctor's offices I want to avoid the Lord talkers; they tend to want to lay hands on me. Since I have an immediate unease of stranger danger and the germs they carry I feel like a trapped deer on the first day of hunting season. She blesses me profusely before getting distracted by one of her friends. "Harold," she says to an elderly gentleman with his pants pulled up to his nipples and a fresh orange stain in between the fourth and fifth buttons of his blue shirt. I easily walk away from their reunion, slightly comforted that this appointment will go smoothly.

I'm an hour early to my appointment. I sign in, set up my laptop, and get called for a urine sample. The last time I was here I was on-time and still had to wait to be called for a sample. Then, I had a two hour wait before I was called back for my appointment. But, because I'm prepared to wait....

I get in the bathroom to give the sample. I really have to go. No, really. I have to go. I'm fumbling to hang my purse and laptop bag from the hook on the back of the door. I struggle to lift up my dress; I am not fast enough. I can feel it. I am standing with urine running down my legs and on to the floor. I clamp down with a massive Kegel exercise to stop the urine. Now, I've got to clean this up and I have not even gone. I'm clenching my arms to my sides furiously holding my dress above my waist. In my left hand I am holding the sample cup, in the right hand I am mentally struggling to hold the pen, 'how many other women have held this disgusting bathroom pen with urine soaked fingers?'

I scribble my name, leave a sample, wipe up the floor with paper towels, and scrub my hands in the sink.

Grateful that I carry extra panties to these appointments I give myself a bath with the provided baby wipes then dig out the clean pair of panties that are crumpled at the bottom of my purse, and shimmy them up my legs. I am giggling profusely only imagining what the nurse waiting outside the door is thinking.

I get called back for my appointment. I'm in a dark room, laying on this table, with a stranger woman, who is the ultrasound tech, steadily holding a wand inside my treasure. She is throughly examining the contents of my insides. We are both laughing because I am the first patient she has ever had to blog the experience while in utero. I begin to cackle when I imagine photographing the situation. When I make the joke suggesting the photograph she looks horrified which makes me laugh even harder.

As I lay here getting my insides rearranged I think to myself that I'll consider it a good day if I can get through this next test without crying or shitting on the table.